


Heart of the Matter

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cute, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, My Take On How The Boys Are Handling a Pandemic, Skype, Skype calls, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, season 15 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24052330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: It’s a good thing they don’t have 9 to 5’s, because the Winchesters would need to buy a new alarm clock every day. And fill in a lot of drywall.Still cautious, he flips open his PC to see who’s phoning him over Skype. It’s unusual, to say the least. Not to say hunters aren’t good at staying in touch… well, actually, he is. Only because most of them die.With some exceptions. The smirking face on his screen reminds him of that.
Relationships: Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	Heart of the Matter

** The Heart of the Matter **

"Nothing," Dean grumbles, closing his laptop. "Not even a crossroads deal… or a hike in the woods gone wrong. Wendigo’s still exist, right?”

"I mean, it makes sense," Sam says, shrugging as he lays his latest book—a re-read of _The Wizard Of Oz_ —on its spine, using his large thumb as a temporary bookmark. "With a state-issued stay-at-home order, no one's gonna take any risks. No teenagers lurking around abandoned buildings, no desperados at strip clubs or bars..."

Dean clutches his chest like he's been shot. "Don't remind me of the bars."

"I'm just saying, the less vulnerable people, the less hot the hotbeds. There's no one to haunt, stalk, possess, manipulate. It's a literal ghost town _for_ ghosts."

"C'mon, there has to be something," Dean argues. "If everyone's trapped at home, then kids are probably getting creative. Did you know Wicca's a fad now? Like, actual Witchcraft? Where are the hexing gone-wrongs and the spirits being summoned from that?"

"How would we even help them?" Sam asks with a scoff. "We can't go to them. And even if we could, we can't exactly lead with FBI."

"Why not?"

"Our badges expired. And Kinkos is closed."

"What are the chances someone’ll pay _that_ close attention?"

"We're already on thin ice with Chuck, Dean. We can't get sloppy and risk him finding us."

Dean snaps his fingers, like a brilliant idea just came to him. He then ruins that illusion by saying, "What about a Skype incantation?"

"A _what_?"

Sam’s hand flies to the gun in his back pocket as loud chiming cuts through their banter. As if learning his laptop—the source of the noise—has to run above 3Ghz or it’ll explode, Sam pockets his glock and takes a careful breath. It’s a good thing they don’t have 9 to 5’s, because the Winchesters would need to buy a new alarm clock every day. And fill in a lot of drywall.

Still cautious, he flips open his PC to see who’s phoning him over Skype. It’s unusual, to say the least. Not to say hunters aren’t good at staying in touch… well, actually, he is. Only because most of them die.

With some exceptions. The smirking face on his screen reminds him of that.

“Eileen,” he breathes—this time a true, deep exhale.

Eileen may be alive, but her smile is in Purgatory—wavering in and out of existence. Just as quick as it came, it gets pulled back under with all the monsters, hungry for flesh and happiness.

Sam’s quick to fold his index, middle, and ring finger of his right hand into his palm, thumb and pinkie sticking out as he furrows his brows and taps the sign to his chin: _What’s wrong?_

Eileen laughs humorlessly. “I should be asking you that question,” she says. “I thought… after everything that happened and how I left… you might not want to see me.”

Sam’s eyes widen as he scrambles for a proper response.

Dean waves to him from across the table, signing something that’s clearly only rushed Dean-speak for “I’m gonna go somewhere else.”

“No… no,” is all he can manage to say as he shakes his head. “No, of course not. Nothing’s… no, you…” Jesus, since when did he become his brother—so inconveniently lost for words when it comes to feelings? He sighs and tries something different: He signs what he’s trying to say: _You mean too much to me._

Eileen seems to breathe a little more too as one side of her smile wriggles free. “How are things?”

“Good,” Sam says, followed by the sloth-like sweep of his right hand over the top of his left, starting from the tips of his fingers to his wrist: “Slow. What about you… you know… wherever you’re at.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to find out where I am,” Eileen says, but there’s still a smile playing at her lips.

Sam chuckles, “Should you choose to tell me, I promise not to find you and drag you back home.”

Eileen’s jaw goes slack. Sam’s fist flies to his mouth and presses tight, as if he’s hoping to pull out a colorful, never-ending handkerchief before his hand pulls away.

“Well… I appreciate that. You know what they say… there’s no place like home.”

Eileen’s smile blossoms after that statement, leaving Sam no choice but to smile too.

“Well, nothing over here,” she continues, “but I think I may have found a case in your area. I was looking into Shawn Parcells. At first, I thought maybe a werewolf or vampire posing as a medical examiner, but the hearts weren’t reported missing from the vics, and no blood was drained… so he’s either a really bad monster—”

“Or a really bad necrophiliac. I’ll look deeper into it.”

“Cool.”

“Cool,” Sam echoes.

“Talk to you later?” Eileen suggests.

Sam nods with confidence. “Later,” he confirms. “Take care, Eileen.”

“Bye, Sam.”

Sam waits until his little blue camera light flickers off before signing something to his empty screen; one that only requires his middle and ring finger folded over into his palm.

He spends a half hour or so on Parcells before deciding it’s better the _real_ Feds handle this one. Sam never says this about anyone, but the only person who can help him is God—and he’s shit out of luck on that one.

Closing his laptop, he picks up _The Wizard of Oz_ again, and, with three taps of shiny red heels, he’s instantly teleported back to a better time.

**“I shall take the heart,” said the Tin Man. “For brains do not make one happy, and happiness is the best thing in the world.”**

**Author's Note:**

> So, in case you're like me and had no idea this existed until I was doing research for this fic, Shawn Parcells is a real person!!! He was apparently performing autopsies on COVID-19 victims - WITHOUT a medical license. Look him up. Pretty wild times we live in.


End file.
